


From Moscow, with Clove

by merle_p



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alcohol, Christmas, Drunkenness, F/M, Father Frost - Freeform, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Germany, Holiday Traditions, Homesickness, Post-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Romance, Sharing Clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-06 14:20:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5420309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merle_p/pseuds/merle_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Of course,” Illya shrugs and drinks again. “The Russians invented it.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	From Moscow, with Clove

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HelenaKey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HelenaKey/gifts).



> Written for HelenaKey, who wanted to see Illya getting drunk and turning uncharacteristically emotional around Christmas time. I hope you like this, my dear!

 

“Let me guess,” Napoleon says dryly and tries not to get mustard on his shirt as he takes another bite of his Bratwurst. “You are not a big fan of Christmas?”

Illya’s glare is cold enough to make the Black Sea freeze over, and manages to convey his contempt for both Napoleon’s eating habits and the festive season clearly.

“Christmas is religious holiday appropriated by capitalists,” he says stiffly. “Russians do not celebrate it.”

“True,” Napoleon nods. “But Russian children still believe in _Ded Moroz_ and _Snegurochka_ , do they not?”

Illya hunches his shoulders. “ _Da_ ,” he concedes reluctantly. “But Father Frost and the Snowmaiden visit on New Year’s Eve. And it is –“ He pauses and gestures awkwardly. “Not like this.”

Napoleon throws a glance around, taking in the people, the noises, the smells, and has to admit that it’s no wonder Illya has been looking more and more like they are under attack from enemy forces as the night goes on.

Napoleon has lived in New York, and is used to the way the city changes in the weeks before Christmas, the skating rinks that pop up everywhere, the Christmas songs playing in the department stores, the enormous tree in front of the Rockefeller Center. But he clearly underestimated the seriousness with which the Germans approach their Christmas decorations. They may not have the taste for the grand-scale illuminations Americans are so fond of, but the inside of every store, every restaurant, every church is decked out with branches of pine tree and candles, with stars made from straw and colorful paper, with tinsel and wooden nativity scenes.

This close to the holidays, the Christmas market in Ulm, tucked into the space underneath the magnificent cathedral, seems like the busiest place in town. They came here on a milk run of sorts, to tail a man working at the European Organization for Nuclear Research in Geneva, Switzerland. The man had been suspected of selling sensitive information to the Japanese but turned out to simply have a peculiar taste in women’s designer shoes, and since their mission had ended on a somewhat anticlimactic note, Gaby insisted that they explore what the locality has to offer before heading back to New York. In this part of the German Southwest, Gaby stands out almost as much as Illya and Napoleon do – her East Berlin dialect a dead giveaway that she doesn’t belong – but apparently the Christmas market setting is still familiar enough for her to feel at ease.

“In Berlin, I used to go to the one in the Lustgarten to eat waffles,” she reminisces, only minutes before slipping away with the promise to acquire drinks, leaving the men to wait for her at a flimsy wooden high table between a shooting booth and the Bratwurst stand from which Napoleon purchases his greasy dinner. Illya is growing increasingly tense amidst the crowd, and by the time Napoleon has licked the last of the meat juice off his fingers, he looks ready to bolt.

“Sorry this took so long,” Gaby says cheerfully when she finally returns, juggling three heavy mugs in her mitten-clad hands. Her cheeks are red from the cold. “There was a line.”

“What is it?” Illya asks when she presses one of the mugs into his hands, sniffing the steaming liquid suspiciously. Napoleon follows his lead and almost recoils from the heavy smell of cinnamon and clove that hits his nose.

“ _Glühwein_ ,” she says and raises her own mug to her lips. “Mulled wine with spices and rum. Try it,” she says and pokes Illya with an encouraging elbow. He frowns, but doesn’t move away, and she grins up at him in challenge. “It’s good.”

Napoleon takes a careful sip of his own drink and pulls a face. It’s just as bad as he remembers: cloyingly sweet, the cheapness of the wine insufficiently covered by the dominant taste of sugar and spice. When Gaby looks at him expectantly, he grits his teeth, gives her a smile that doesn’t look forced only thanks to years of practice, and tries not to think of the awful headache looming on the horizon.

Illya, on the other hand, utters what sounds like a grunt of satisfaction. “ _Glintvein_ ,” he nods with pleased surprise, and takes a second, longer gulp from his mug.

Gaby looks at him curiously. “You have had it before?”

“Of course,” Illya shrugs and drinks again. “The Russians invented it.”

“That’s not true,” Gaby protests, and if she wasn’t holding a mug of her own, Napoleon is sure she would be putting her hands on her hips. “It’s been a German tradition forever.”

“Perhaps,” Illya says lightly. “But it was Catherine the Great who invented the first recipe. The document is displayed in Leningrad, in the State Hermitage. I have seen it with my own eyes.”

Gaby frowns. “You are lying,” she says, but there is a hint of uncertainty in her voice.

Illya blinks mysteriously and guides his drink back to his mouth. Napoleon is almost certain that he’s using the mug to hide his smile.

**  
**

Gaby and Illya are still bickering over the true origin of mulled wine by the time Illya sets down his cup, and Napoleon offers to get the next round, eliciting from Illya an almost unsettlingly grateful smile. The first thing he does after diving into the crowd is to pour his own beverage into the nearest gutter as discreetly as he can, but he still catches the disapproving stares of an elderly couple when he straightens with the empty mug in his hand. He throws them his most disarming smile, but for some reason that makes them look even more disgruntled. Clearly Gaby is not the only German immune to his charm.

It takes him a moment to find the _Glühwein_ stand, and longer still to flirt with the young woman behind the counter. She clearly takes him for an American soldier, and Napoleon happily plays along, if only to talk her into putting an extra shot of rum in their drinks – he figures additional alcohol cannot possibly make it worse. By the time he gets back to the others, Gaby’s mug has somehow made its way into Illya’s hand, and from the way it is dangling precariously from his index finger, it’s fairly obviously empty.

What gives Napoleon pause, however, is the fact that Illya’s other hand is resting against the nape of Gaby’s neck, just where the collar of her heavy coat meets the stray hair peeking out from underneath her hat.

Napoleon blinks, looks away, looks back again, but the image stays the same. In fact, as he steps closer he realizes that Illya’s hand is not simply curled around the curve of her neck, but that his fingers are petting her in a steady, gentle movement.

Napoleon tries to catch Gaby’s eye, but she is studiously not looking at him. He takes this to mean that they are not going to talk about whatever is going on with Illya tonight.

“Enjoy,” he says with a wink and hands over his bounty. Illya makes what Napoleon would call a delighted hum if the mere idea wasn't so outrageous, deposits his empty mug on the table and reaches for a fresh steaming one without removing his palm from Gaby’s back. Gaby is slower to follow, but she, too, accepts the drink with a grateful smile that is probably as much a thank you for Napoleon’s silence as it is for his offer of wine.

“Cheers,” Napoleon says, raising his own mug in a toast.

“ _Za tvojó zdoróvʹje!_ ” Illya responds earnestly and clinks his mug against Napoleon’s with enough force that some of the liquid sloshes over his hand.

Napoleon raises his brows. Gaby snorts quietly, but she still joins her cup with the others.

“ _Prost_ ,” she says.

“ _Prost_ ,” Illya repeats emphatically, and drains his mug in one go.

“Huh,” Napoleon says, speculatively.

“What?” Illya asks carelessly and lines his empty mug up with the other two. “Is good.”

His hand on Gaby’s neck shifts, slides down until his arm is wrapped all the way around her shoulders. He is so tall that he has to slouch a little to make it work, and his posture has lost some of its rigidness, making it look almost as if he is leaning on Gaby for support. Napoleon would be worried for her tiny frame, but she doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, she curls into him almost imperceptibly, fitting herself neatly into the curve of his shoulder. Napoleon supposes he cannot blame her: after months of back and forth during which, as far as Napoleon can tell, absolutely nothing has happened between these two, a wine-fueled embrace seems like significant progress.

“Would you like the rest of my drink?” he asks casually. “I don’t think I’m a big fan of the spiked kind.” It's not even really a lie: if he imagined the extra rum might improve the taste, he was clearly fooling himself. 

Illya frowns in a way that to anyone else must appear as annoyance, but that Napoleon has begun to suspect is actually Illya’s expression of concern.

“You do not like it?” he asks dejectedly, as if the notion actually pains him, although that doesn’t stop him from reaching for Napoleon’s cup.

“Well …” Napoleon makes slowly.

Gaby gives him a slightly sullen look. “You could have just said, you know?” she complains. “I would have gotten you something else.”

“I didn’t know before I tried it,” he lies, as smoothly as he can manage. The excuse sounds trite even to his own ears, and Gaby opens her mouth to say something else, but Illya beats her to it by slamming the fourth mug down on the table with a noticeable thump.

“We need to find you different drink,” he says with a determination usually reserved for infiltrating illegal weapons factories.

“Wait here,” he adds sternly and untangles himself from Gaby’s neck. He strides off with purpose in his step, and they both watch him go, mouths open.

“This is unexpected,” Napoleon finally says. Gaby laughs shortly, a shade of hysteria in her voice.

“You don’t say,” she responds and shakes her head. “If I had known he’d be like this, I would have tried harder to sell him on the vodka that night in Italy.” She pauses. “Of course I was also horribly drunk at the time, so my strategic skills probably left something to desire.”

Napoleon tilts his head. “Why do I have the feeling that there is a story here?” 

“Not one you’ll get to hear tonight,” Gaby says firmly.

Napoleon has learned long ago that in the secret-retrieving business, a strategic retreat is often the most effective move, and so he smiles harmlessly, signaling his willingness to not push. He'll get her to tell him eventually. 

“No wonder he never drinks on the job,” he says instead, and Gaby giggles helplessly. Napoleon gets the distinct impression that she isn't quite sober anymore either. Idly, he wonders whether Illya's quest for more alcohol is really such a good idea. 

 

“I’m not sure the mead was such a good idea,” he announces thoughtfully, and, on second thought, probably a little bit too late. 

They are halfway through the second bottle of honey wine, and it must be close to midnight – the market is long deserted, the last stand having closed hours ago. The Bratwurst vendor had shot them strange looks while locking up his booth, and Napoleon could tell that he had considered making a remark about loitering and public disturbance, although in the end, he had remained quiet. Whether this was because he, too, mistook Napoleon for a member of the US Army or because Illya’s Russian accent became increasingly obvious the more he drank was hard to say. The people in this part of the country haven’t had much interaction with the Russians, neither during nor after the war, but that doesn’t mean ugly prejudice isn't still common enough.

“Why not?” Illya asks, his accent as thick and heavy as the mead. He has been steadily working his way down the first bottle and deep into the second one, and Napoleon is honestly surprised that he is still upright, much less articulate. Of course, he has also been petting Gaby’s hair for the past ten minutes with absent-minded determination, and Gaby’s expression is shifting between what appears to be mortification and a happy glow – although her blush might just as well be due to alcohol and the cold.

“You like it, no?”

“Yes, I like it,” Napoleon sighs. He really shouldn’t, by all means: the mead is just as sweet as the mulled wine, but the honey flavor gives it a spicy smoothness that rolls pleasantly over the tongue.

“ _Myod,”_ Illya nods proudly, and pours himself another cup. “Invented by Russians.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Gaby says in fond exasperation. “Are you trying to claim that all alcoholic beverages originated in Russia?”

Illya frowns, indignantly. “ _Njet_ ,” he says. “Would be ridiculous. Only the Americans could have invented Bourbon.”

Napoleon raises his brows. “Thank you, I suppose?”

Illya gives him an unimpressed stare. “Was not a compliment.” 

Napoleon is trying to decide whether this warrants a costs-and-benefits analysis of bourbon vs. vodka, but a cold gust of wind sweeps across the place, blowing a straw star and empty wrapping papers across the pavement, making Gaby shiver violently in her fur. 

Illya's brow furrows. “You are cold,” he says, and she snorts in amusement at the obvious statement, although the effect is somewhat ruined by another full-body shiver.

His frown deepens. “Here,” he says and starts to take off his coat. “It will keep you warm.” Gaby basically drowns in the heavy woolen coat that he wraps around her shoulders. With the hem dragging on the ground and the sleeves falling down to her finger tips, Napoleon thinks she looks more like a little child than the operative of a secret intelligence organization, although he knows better than to say this out loud.

“Better,” Illya nods in satisfaction and pats her back for good measure.

“What about you?” she protests, half-heartedly, even as she tucks the coat more tightly around her narrow frame. “It’s freezing, you’ll catch a cold.”

He waves her off. “I am not cold,” he says. “I’m Russian.”

“You are drunk off your ass, is what you are,” Napoleon laughs, even as he rubs his hands against each other to keep the circulation going. “Far be it from me to try and ruin the delightful mood,” he adds, “but perhaps we should head back to the hotel. We do actually have to catch a flight tomorrow, and I highly doubt that we’ll manage to find a cab anywhere around this time of night.”

Illya’s expression is downright aghast. “We cannot leave yet,” he says reproachfully, and brandishes the mead. “Not before bottle is empty. Is bad luck.”

Napoleon gives him a doubtful look. “Is this actually a Russian custom, or are you just making this stuff up?”

Gaby untangles her hand from the depth of Illya’s coat to poke him carefully in the arm. “The man has got a point, Illya,” she says gently. “And it’s a long walk to the hotel.”

Illya stares sadly at the mead, and for a moment, it looks like he’ll actually protest. Then he seems to come to a decision, and raises the bottle to his lips. When he finally relinquishes his grip on the bottle, it is very obviously empty.

“Now we can leave,” he announces and wipes his mouth.

“Uhm,” Gaby makes.

Napoleon blinks. “Well,” he says. “That’s one way to solve the problem.”

 

“Illya,” Napoleon says and tries to keep his teeth from chattering. He doesn’t quite succeed. “Illya, my friend. The hotel is just around the corner. Why are we sitting down here again?”

The walk back to the hotel has already taken about twice as long as it did in the afternoon, mostly because Illya keeps pausing at random intervals to make observations about the virtues of eggnog, German cobblestone, and the stars in the winter sky. On one noticeable occasion, he tried to start a fight with a scrawny middle-aged man who made the mistake of muttering under his breath as he passed them in the street. Napoleon wasn’t able to pick up his words, but Illya started to shout obscenities in Russian that made Napoleon blush and the local man cower in fear. By the time Napoleon and Gaby had managed to drag Illya away, the guy was visibly glad he’d escaped with his life.

Unfortunately, the alcohol delayed, but not prevented Illya's realization as to why exactly the man had been so terrified of him, and when understanding dawned, he turned melancholy as quickly as he had gotten furious only moments before. He sat down on the next public bench with the heavy movements of a man carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, tucked Gaby against his side and wrapped himself around her like a third winter coat.

Napoleon is shifting from one foot to the other and tries not to feel jealous of her, because he has stopped feeling his toes quite a while ago. Longingly, he thinks of his bed, only meters away, and wonders what strange turn in his life has led him to a point where he is risking frostbite to provide emotional support to a Russian spy who seems to have become, for all intents and purposes, his friend.

“Is not so bad, perhaps, your Christmas,” Illya now says thoughtfully. “The drinks are good, at least. But is nothing like our New Year’s celebration,” he adds, and there is something forlorn in his voice that almost makes Napoleon forget about his frozen feet.

“You actually miss it?” Gaby asks uncertainly, turning her head back as far as she can to look up at his face. “I didn't think you missed Russia all that much.”

”Not often,” Illya shrugs, a bit too casually to be convincing. “Memories are not so good. But in December, yes, I miss it. Moscow is beautiful in the winter,” he says thickly, and Napoleon realizes to his horror that Illya sounds like he is on the verge of tears. “Very cold,” he continues. “Very cold, but so beautiful.” He pauses, studies Gaby from the side. “Like you.”

“Cold, you mean?” Gaby asks, and Illya makes a noise of annoyed protest.

“Beautiful, _Milaya Moya_ ,” he says, and suddenly leans in to press a kiss against her face, somewhere in the vicinity between her cheek and the corner of her mouth. Gaby squeaks and then sits very still as Illya leaves a trail of kisses along her jaw.

Napoleon coughs.

Illya pulls back with a heavy sigh. “You should see it,” he says, to no one in particular. “Moscow,” he says. “It is all white, and St. Basil is like a fairy tale.”

“It sounds very pretty,” Gaby says. Her voice is shaking slightly. “I’d like to see it, someday.”

“I will show you,” Illya promises earnestly, and raises a hand to pet her face. “I will show you both,” he says, and slowly climbs to his feet.

“What are you waiting for?” he asks, slightly puzzled, and gives them an impatient wave. “Come, hotel is just around the corner.”

Napoleon laughs incredulously. Gaby closes her eyes briefly, then looks up at Napoleon with something like gallows humor in her eyes.

“Do you think he’ll actually remember any of this tomorrow?” she asks, and Napoleon follows the meandering line of Illya’s steps down the street.

“I wouldn’t count on it,” he responds sympathetically, and Gaby sighs.

”That’s what I was afraid of,” she says resignedly, but she is still smiling when she takes the hand Napoleon offers and lets him pull her to her feet.

They catch up with Illya outside the hotel, where he is leaning against the house wall, staring up into the starry sky. 

Gaby groans and goes to call for the evening clerk.

“Come on, then,” Napoleon says and puts a hand on Illya's shoulder. “You’ll be lucky if you don’t wake up with a kidney infection after walking around in the cold like this. And I’m not going to nurse you back to health if you get sick. If Istanbul has taught me anything, it's that you are pretty much the most ungrateful patient ever.”

Illya tilts his head towards Napoleon in a lazy roll. His eyes are dark and surprisingly clear. “You are a good friend, cowboy,” he says seriously. He lifts a hand and pats Napoleon’s cheek. “You are a very good friend.”

Napoleon swallows. “You are not so bad either, Peril,” he says, and hopes the sudden scratch in his throat doesn't mean he is getting a cold.  

“Are you coming?” Gaby calls quietly from the hotel entrance, and Napoleon tugs on Illya's arm. 

“Let’s go,” he says, but Illya doesn’t move.

“Napoleon?” Gaby asks. Behind her in the doorway, the head of the night clerk appears.

“Uhm,” Napoleon says slowly, and takes a closer look. “I think Illya has fallen asleep.”

Gaby puts a hand over her mouth, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter, or perhaps tears of despair.

Illya snores.

“Christ,” Napoleon says, and rubs a hand over his face. “I really wish you would have left me some of the mead. I think I’ll need it if I have to carry you up the stairs.”


End file.
